The Miracle Strain (6 page)

Max Heywood's only "sin" had been to say that the American Constitution was as sacred as anything written in the Bible. The Supreme Court Justice had been found in his chambers with the trademark biblical quote written in his own blood, nailed to his chest: "Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is thewhole duty of man." Ecclesiastes 12:13. He had been garroted, and his tongue pulled out with pliers.

"But why's he after you now?" asked Jasmine. "You've been involved in genetics for years."

"Who knows? One guess is that the publicity about the Nobel Prize pushed him over the edge. Anyway," said Tom, "I don't care who the Preacher is. If he killed Olivia I want him put away. Which brings me to the purpose of this meeting. I want to discuss a change in two priorities. The first relates to Holly and the second to helping the FBI catch the Preacher."

Jack reached for his phone. "I'll get Paul and Jane in here."

Tom stopped him. "No. I want to keep Holly's predicament just between us for the moment."

Paul Mandelson and Jane Naylor were the last two members of the main board. Jack oversaw all financial and marketing matters, Tom, the Research and Development Department, and Jasmine, Information Technology. Paul, the Operations Director, was in charge of all procurement and production. Jane Naylor was the Human Resources Director.

Jack took his hand off the phone and leaned back in his chair. "Okay. Let's start with Holly. I assume it relates to DAN's prediction."

Tom nodded. "Because our policy has always been to concentrate on the more common genetic disorders, we've ignored the rarer, more difficult conditions, such as brain cancer. So to have even a hope in hell of helping Holly I'm switching three of the top lab teams onto developing gene therapy protocols to get around the blood-brain barrier and specifically target glioblastoma multiforme. That means some of the more mainstream, profitable projects will be delayed. There will also be increased funding implications which you should be aware of. But otherwise nothing should change. Okay?"

Jack shrugged. "Sure. Whatever you need. Just give me the breakdowns so the bean counters can open the relevant budget centers and account codes."

Tom turned to Jasmine. "Jazz, I've told the FBI about the Gene Genie software, and they're keen to trial it. They have no idea what this mysterious Preacher looks like. Even the film of Olivia's shooting just shows a guy in a big coat, wrapped up against the cold. But they're convinced that sooner or later he'll leave a genetic trace of some kind at one of his crimes. And when he does they want to use Gene Genie to summon up his likeness. I want to help them. How's the latest prototype doing?"

The Gene Genie software was a second-generation add-on to the Genescope software. The current Genescopes could give a good physical description of a person from their DNA: color of skin, hair, and eyes as well as ethnic type, probable height and build. The Gene Genie software went one step further. Building on the early nineties concept of developing computer-generated photo-fits, using input from witnesses, Gene Genie was intended to create a three-dimensional hologram of a subject built up entirely from his or her genes.

Jasmine opened the laptop in front of her and called up the critical path for the project. "It's almost finished," she said. "The latest timetable puts it at being ready for Beta testing in ten weeks."

Tom frowned. "If you made it top-dollar priority and threw money at the problem, how soon could you have it finished?"

"A month. Five weeks. Assuming we don't have any major glitches. But it'll cost."

"It doesn't matter," Tom said. "Spend whatever you need to get it operational. But make it four weeks."

Jack looked at him. No doubt thinking about the millions they would have to spend to bring the project forward a few weeks. "What's the rush, Tom? We've got a monopoly on the software. And you don't really think this'll help catch Olivia's killer, do you?"

"At least we're doing something."

Jack looked as if he was about to argue, but then he leaned back in his chair with a shrug. "Okay. Okay. But whoever this Preacher guy is it'll take more than a ghostmaking machine to catch him. He's been around for over thirteen years and nobody's come close." Jack sat forward and looked him in the eye. "Shit, Tom, the guy's a ghost already."

Chapter Five.

A month later, February 2, 2003

Beacon Hill

Boston

Tom Carter poured his third cup of black coffee, and watched the clock ticking away in the quiet of the kitchen. It was five fifty-eight in the morning; not even Marcy Kelley, their housekeeper, was up yet.

Seven weeks, four days, and six hours had now elapsed since Olivia's death--he often wondered when he would stop measuring it so precisely--but still the authorities were no closer to finding her killer. Apart from the Gene Genie software, which was now almost completed, the only glimmer of hope Tom could see was that the FBI were convinced he was still a target. If they were right, then Carter thought there was a chance the bastard could be caught by the agents and police watching over him.

The thought of being stalked by such a killer was frightening, but any concern for his own life was overshadowed by his fear for Holly's. Moment by moment he was aware of the even more implacable killer stalking his daughter. Today, after weeks of work, he would know whether one of his team's key experiments had been successful, and whether he had at least a hope in hell of finding a cure in time.

He stood, picked his crumpled jacket up from the back of his chair, and left the kitchen. Walking across the large Chinese rug that covered much of the hall, he made his way to the oak staircase. At the top of the stairs he straightened his injured leg and rubbed the area just above his knee. He would need an operation to cure his limp completely, but it was hardly a priority. He gently pushed open Holly's door, preparing to tiptoe inside without disturbing her, when he was surprised by a bright desk lamp shining directly at the door.

"Hi, Dad," said Holly, her spiky blond hair bent with sleep. She sat at her desk in a baggy green WHAT ARE YOU STARING AT? T-shirt, tapping away at her computer.

Tom blinked away the dazzle and ruffled her hair. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Couldn't sleep. So I thought I'd have one more go on the Wrath of Zarg."

He smiled and sat on her bed, next to the desk. It was rare to catch her awake this early. Holly was usually awakened by the cheery "rise and shine" of Marcy Kelley's booming brogue just before eight--in time for breakfast and the ride to school with her friends.

He turned to the screen and watched the warrior queen Holly was controlling. The ridiculously muscular figure was standing beneath a ceiling that seemed to be raining fiery bricks down on her head. A dragon was approaching from her left and a huge troll-like animal from the right.

"Looks like you're in trouble."

Holly laughed. "Piece of cake."

"Oh, yeah? How are you going to avoid being roasted by the bricks without the dragon eating you, or the troll crushing you?"

"Like this." Holly immediately pressed a couple of keys and the warrior queen on the screen bent down and picked up a rock from the ground, revealing a small blue bottle. Another few taps on the keyboard and the character picked up the blue bottle and drank it. Suddenly she was glowing, immune to the falling hot bricks. And in no time she was using her sword to dice the dragon, kebab the troll, and move on to the next level.

"Magic potion," Holly explained with a wise-guy grin.

"Makes you invulnerable. Works every time. You just need to know where to look."

He looked at his daughter, oblivious to her impending disease. "Magic potion, huh. I'm impressed." He wished it was as easy for him.

The screen changed and a new level came up.

"Level six," Holly exclaimed triumphantly. "Awesome."

Tom was glad Holly liked the new computer. It had been a Christmas gift from Olivia and him. Jasmine had helped choose the model, and it was about the only fun Holly had enjoyed over an otherwise doom-laden Christmas. Sure, Alex and other relations had stayed over, and Jazz and all their friends had been heroically considerate, but nothing could distract them from the void of Olivia's absence. All in all the whole festive season was right up there with a week's vacation in hell.

He glanced around Holly's room. On one wall a Jurassic Park3 poster vied with a life-size picture of The Internet Troopers. A soccer ball sat on the middle shelf above the desk, next to a large photo of Olivia laughing in the garden. He quickly shifted his gaze to the collection of CD-ROM computer games and GI Joe action figures. He smiled inwardly when he considered how there wasn't one doll, cute Peanuts poster, or doe-eyed Disney character in sight. From when she was tiny it had been obvious that Holly wasn't a Barbie doll kind of girl. So much for genetics, he thought.

Suddenly he imagined this room empty. The fear came so quickly and unannounced that he needed a second to compose himself. He took a deep breath and reassured himself that the CAT and PET brain scans they had taken together had shown no sign of Holly's tumor yet. Again he told himself that there was enough time to find her a cure. He would find the time.

"Dad?"

He turned to Holly, who was studying his feet. "Yes?"

"You ready for work already?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Your socks don't match."

He looked down and saw she was right. He was wearing one blue and one brown sock. "They're not meant to match," he said. "They're a special pair."

Holly just raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, right."

Tom stood up and kissed her on the cheek. "No really, Hol. I can prove it."

Holly narrowed her eyes. "How?"

He couldn't resist a grin as he moved to the door. "Because I've got another pair just like them."

He heard her groan, "Daaad," but Tom managed to get out the door before the pillow reached him.

By six-thirty Tom was driving through the gates of the GENIUS campus, his discreet police tail not far behind. He normally liked to be at his desk before six-fifteen, but seeing Holly awake had been a welcome break in his routine.

He drove the Mercedes into the underground parking garage and noticed it was virtually empty. He smiled when he saw the lone bright green BMW convertible parked in the first available spot. He had a running joke with Jazz to see who could be in earliest and whoever won invariably took the prime spot to prove the point. Occasionally Jack Nichols would get in at some stupid time and park his car there, just to tell them he could be up with the best of them, but most days it was between them. Usually he won. But not today.

He got out of the car and walked to the stairs that led to the atrium. Before the shooting he would have run up them, but now he only walked. He refused to take the elevator out of principle.

It was quiet save for the hollow click-clack of his heels on marble. To his left, through tinted glass walls he could see Jasmine wandering around the main computer room. Leading to her from the atrium was a door of black opaque glass marked: INFORMATION TECHNOLOGY SECTION--AUTHORIZED ENTRY ONLY. The IT Section, along with the central atrium and the Hospital Suite, occupied the ground floor of the GENIUS pyramid.

He returned her wave and walked to the middle of the atrium. Here, reaching up to the apex of the pyramid, was a thirty-foot-tall multicolored hologram of the DNA spiral, rotating on a circular holo-pad. As he often did, Tom disobeyed the sign beside it and stepped directly into the three-dimensional image. He looked up through the spiral staircase rotating around him and marveled at the multi-colored rungs of nitrogen bases. Standing inside the double helix that carried the code of all life never failed to inspire him. This to him was the real information superhighway, along whose route most secrets that mattered could be unraveled. Shaking his head in fresh wonder, he stepped off the holo-pad and headed for the Hospital Suite to the west of the atrium.

Pushing open the door, he found himself in the small, cheerfully decorated waiting room with its adjoining rest rooms. Ahead were a pair of swinging doors that led to the experimental gene therapy ward and the fully equipped operating room beyond. Approved by the National Cancer Institute at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, Maryland, the ward had ten beds. Fully funded by GENIUS, it was staffed with four doctors and ten nurses, one for each bed. Two of the doctors were on paid sabbatical from the NIH. Both of them were charged with ensuring the cross-fertilization of ideas and best practice--plus of course checking that GENIUS obtained the necessary Federal Drug Administration and NIH approvals for all experimental treatments on their human guinea pigs. He valued the NIH doctors' presence and hid nothing from them. Well, almost nothing. He hadn't shown them the IGOR DNA database yet. He was sure that despite his motives, the National Institutes of Health wouldn't approve of that.

Tom opened the door and smiled at the sunny room that greeted him: yellow walls, curtains of cornflower blue, houseplants, pine beds in semiprivate cubicles. All added to the impression that this wasn't a ward at all, but a large bedroom. However, that wasn't what made the place so special, and Tom so proud.

The ward was unusual because patients could qualify for a bed here only if they met one stringent criterion: They had to have less than three months to live. People came here when chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and all other treat ments had failed. This was literally their last resort. It was where they came to have their genes reprogrammed.

Tom had initiated the ward to ensure that his scientists in the labs upstairs saw the direct application of their work, and never forgot that medical research was meaningless if it didn't help save human lives. Many of the terminally ill patients still died, but a significant few had missed their stop and kept on living. Back in early 1999 the first accredited cystic fibrosis cure through gene therapy had happened in this room. As had the first recorded successful gene therapy trial for Huntington's chorea a year later. This modest ward had seen more than fifty people's lives saved in the last nine years. Plus countless more throughout the world as a result of what was tested here.

Only six beds were being used at the moment. Five of the patients were asleep but he wasn't surprised to see that Hank Polanski was sitting up talking to the head nurse, Beth Lawrence. Today was a big day for the twenty-three-year-old farmer from North Carolina. The FDA had finally approved their new treatment and this morning Hank Polanski was to be injected with the HIV retrovirus that caused AIDS.

The patients were mainly treated by the other doctors, simply because of his laboratory commitments. But Tom still couldn't help regarding each and every one of them as his own personal responsibility.

Nurse Lawrence, a tall prim-looking woman with a surprisingly open smile, was busy fitting an intravenous drip into Hank's arm. When she looked up she greeted Tom warmly. "Good morning, Dr. Carter."

"Morning, Beth. Morning, Hank. How are you feeling today?"

Hank turned his pale face to him and gave a defiant grin. "I'm still here, Doc." When he spoke he did so with a breathless wheeze.

"You ready for the treatment?"

Hank nodded nervously. He was a volunteer for the experimental gene therapy, but Tom knew he had no choice. Hank had lung cancer and would die without radical treatment. This involved inserting genes into Hank's tumor cells, genes that would tell the immune system to kill the tumor. Cancer cells are cells that have rebelled against their strict genetic orders, and are growing out of control. To put down this revolt Tom had to make sure he killed all, or virtually all, of the tumor cells. To do that he needed a vehicle to get the killer genes into the rebel cells without harming the good ones. That was where the HIV retrovirus came in.

Retroviruses could enter a body cell, incorporating their own genetic instructions into the cell's healthy DNA. Like cruise missiles, retroviruses could be reprogrammed in the laboratory, their harmful code turned off and good genes inserted. By neutering the genes in the HIV retrovirus that attacked the human immune system, and putting in special therapeutic genes, the killer that caused AIDS could be tamed to cure lung cancer. Tom and his team had proved they'd made the retrovirus harmless. It had been successfully loaded with genes to target and kill cancerous lung cells. All that remained was to test the genetically engineered retrovirus in a human.

"What are the risks again?" asked Hank, trying not to look frightened.

Tom put his hand on Hank's shoulder and rested it there. As always he was careful to be completely honest.